Emotional C4
by dragonprincess1988
Summary: Tim questions his sanity.


You were supposed to be there. You said that you would be there. You said that was your job. I knew it wasn't, but still…you said you would be there. You were supposed to be there. So where the hell were you? What the hell was so damn important that you couldn't be there?

I know, I know. It's a completely selfish and completely ridiculous thought, and trust me, I hate myself for even thinking it; but it's there. And I know what was so damn important. Hell, had you not gone, I would have kicked your ass for staying, but it hurts. God, it hurts...and it hurts to admit it hurts...and it hurts because you weren't there...and it hurts because there's nothing but pain--lots of fucking pain. It hurts to breathe…do you know what that's like?

God, what the hell am I supposed to do? I only know how to deal long enough until you come and help, but you're not coming, and I'm not getting any help. So what the hell do I do? How the hell do I deal? How does this work? Because right now it doesn't work. Right now, I'm falling apart. Do you get that? I'm falling apart, and I'm not so sure it's metaphorical anymore.

Fuck, are you listening to me? This is pathetic. I'm always pathetic...especially now. I blame you, and then I sit here and really think about it…I mean,_really_ think about it; and then I just blame myself. Why am I failing at this? I used to be good at this. I used to fucking function. Why can't I function, and who do I blame for that change in events?

You want to know the really messed up part of all of this? I want to hate you for not being there. I really do. I want to fucking harm you every time I see you for not being there, but if you were there...had you stayed…I'd hate you even more. But worse than that, I'd hate myself even more than I already do. See, so it really is just me failing to be sane. I told you I was losing my sanity. You didn't believe me. God, why didn't you believe me? How could I possibly make it any clearer? I'm losing everything that ever mattered to me. Can't you see that? Because, I assure you, it's rather obvious to me.

I'm breaking...I'm not supposed to break. Robin isn't supposed to break, at least not without some serious help from the major villains. He isn't supposed to just wake up one day and realize his sanity is fleeing him at an alarming rate. What the hell am I going to do? How the hell am I going to survive? I'm failing, and no one sees it. I don't even think you see it. Scratch that--I know you don't see it; and I know no one else close to me does, either. I walk around in a haze, and everyone just assumes it's sleep deprivation. It can't be. I'm getting more sleep now than ever...although it isn't doing me any good. I'm surviving, but I don't even know how.

Do you understand that? How can a person survive when it's the last thing he wants? How is that possible? I'm not even trying, trust me on that one. I just do it, because it's what I was trained to do. I was trained to survive, and no matter how much I wish otherwise, some 'skills' just stay with you. It's like--tying your shoes...damn muscle memory. And how fucked up is it that I don't even want to survive…I just do? God, what the hell is wrong with me? Somehow, I doubt even you have that answer.

So, there we have it. I'm fucked up in the head--more than normal--hell, more than even Jason might be. Or maybe this is just emotional C-4. Maybe all of the chemicals in my brain are working in overdrive and I'm just going to explode. And you? You're oblivious to all of it, and you're going to stay that way, because the moment I'm done writing this, I'm burning this fucking thing, and removing all traces that I ever realized exactly how cracked my psyche is. And the next time we see each other you'll pat me on the back, and I'll smile and pretend that I'm not thinking about how easy it would be to just jump off that rooftop without a line.

Because this is what we do, Dick. You tell me that 'it's okay, Timmy', and I nod in agreement, and silently remind myself that it's never okay, because I don't even know what okay is. I'm sure at one time I knew what it was…hell, at one time I'm sure I _was_ okay--better than okay. But, it's been some time since okay and I have been synonymous. So, what the hell do I do? Because there's no way in any universe that I'm discussing this with you, because really we both know how that ends…with me in a choke hold or something.

Damn it, I just want a nap--which is ridiculous, because it's not like sleep helps. And the more I sleep, the closer you get to realizing something is definitely wrong. But maybe that wouldn't be such a terrible thing after all. Then again, maybe it would, and you do realize that this is part of the reason my sanity is escaping me, right? I can never tell what a good decision to make with you is. I know you've got enough to deal with, so I'm not going to potentially start another bat-related issue--everyone knows we've all got enough of those.

So, what am I supposed to do? Why does that seem to be the only question I don't have an answer for? Possibly because I can't talk to you. Okay, that's a lie. I won't talk to you, and you hate that. I know you hate that. It's entirely evident by your facial expressions, your tone, and the way your fighting skills decrease considerably when we're sparring; but this is our cycle. I do things to keep you from pain, which just causes you more pain, and we all just pretend I'm not breaking at the seams. Okay, here's a question. Why do we pretend this works? I think we can all see how it doesn't.

Maybe I won't burn this after all. Maybe I'll just leave it on my desk with a post-it on top stating that I've gone searching for my rapidly depleting sanity, or possibly I'll just go seeking out Jason. I'm sure he could use the company, and I could use the experience. He should be able to at least sort of explain how a decently sane person turns into a not so sane person, right?

However, there's always the possibility that I just need some time away from Gotham, and this is all just one big fucking plea from my brain to just take some damn time off. Hmm, now that I think about it, that doesn't sound nearly as terrible as Bruce makes it out to be. Maybe I will just leave this out with a post-it note stating 'Read into this however you wish. I'm going on vacation.' Then again, this could all just be a caffeine-deprived brain begging for a cup of coffee. Yeah, I'm going with that.

The End


End file.
